


Treacherous

by oliverqueens



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-27 21:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverqueens/pseuds/oliverqueens
Summary: Having depleted her savings and overstayed her visitor’s visa some several years in an attempt to care for her uncle’s deteriorating health, Claire Beauchamp finds herself reluctantly enlisting the help of her partner, Frank Randall, in order to restore her status in society and advance her professional career. Unaccounted for in these plans, however, is the thwarting presence imposed by one James Fraser. We see Claire attempt, and fail, to conciliate her sudden attraction to the dashing Scot as none other than a call for excitement resulting from years of being bound by restrictive immigration law.





	1. getting swept away

“This oughta be Quentin’s greatest lament,” said the Reverend, in a rather hushed tone, between two forkfuls of steak, “becoming ill and leaving ye in this situation.” 

While Mr. Wakefield’s comment could have certainly been misconstrued as a pointed criticism of her late uncle, Claire scarcely took it as such. 

Through no fault of his own, Uncle Lamb, as she affectionately dubbed him, was overtaken by a cancer which claimed their attention in full and halted any and all of their prospective traveling. The wretched sickness quarantined them in Boston long enough to disburden their collective bank accounts of any superfluous income, as well as to strip their travel permits of all validity. 

But Claire hardly minded it, her “condition.” She rather liked taking care of Uncle Lamb, despite their disheartening circumstances; taking up the mantle of the neighborhood “healer” allowed her little time to fixate on her legal limitations, anyhow. 

While the practical skills Claire acquired from her studies during their stead in Boston were rendered ultimately useless in the professional world, without proper work authorization that is; she could hardly complain about their fate without being confronted by the intrinsic protective factors already naturally ensuring their survival in this foreign land. Namely, being fair of skin asserted that her Englishness, however queer around these parts, still offered some shield against both speculation and discrimination of hers and Lamb’s characters. The fascination around her birthplace and upbringing allowed her a fair amount of credibility when mingling with her American neighbors, and inspired enough confidence in them to allow her to occupy a space wherein her talents could flourish and not go entirely to waste. 

“Others have thrived under similar conditions and with far less resources available to them,” she said to the Reverend with a smile, “I am privileged, Mr. Wakefield, and I know it. My uncle cared for me for most of my life, I would not dare to resent the consequences of doing the same for him, to accommodate the end of his.” 

“Still, lass,” Wakefield quipped, smoothing a cloth napkin over his lips for a second before setting it back on his lap, “I urge ye to speed the process along. Cambridge would do the two of ye some good.” 

The Reverend’s cue made Frank’s presence at the table unavoidable. Claire tried her hand at studying the man’s expression at the mention of their proposed union but her efforts yielded no indication of discomfort in his demeanor save for a minuscule shift detected in his sitting position from left to right. 

It had hardly been a full year since Lamb’s passing; since then her days were filled with existential ennui, broken up only by a few neighboring cases of the flu, or, if she was lucky, the setting of a couple broken appendages. But those were mere pastimes which served to revitalize her spirits for a limited measure of time, and although she would not admit it to the Reverend, his proposition did threaten the beginning of some feelings of resentment for Claire—not toward anyone specifically, definitely not toward her uncle, but certainly there nonetheless, festering in her stomach, catapulting her into a union she wasn’t fully prepared for. 

During the past year, Frank’s Harvard stipend had been their main source of income, being that becoming a self-proclaimed nurse paid more in thankful casseroles or connectivity rather than actual money. At this point it made perfect sense, officiating their love for the sake of necessity. Frank had already been so willing to share his home with Claire, and his livelihood with it, that she doubted he would stop short of marriage if it meant allowing her to live a prosperous life making good use of her degrees—which, being undocumented allowed her more than enough time to complete—and doing legitimate work, too. 

“I believe he’s right, darling,” Frank conceded. “My sponsorship is a tangible way to grant you freedom, it could allow you residency, if you wish to stay, and,” his voice faltered at this part, "the ability to leave, if you so desire.” 

“And you’d consider Cambridge?” She asked, feeling a little dirty at the thought of the two reaping the benefits of his partnership with Harvard, only to abandon the institution once she was granted residency, for a post running Cambridge’s history department. 

He nodded, saying the following with a sense of conviction which sent a shiver down Claire’s spine, “if we are to establish a household, I’d rather like it to be in England, your home.” 

“So, no more hiding?” her back straightened against her chair at the prospect of becoming a legitimate, contributing, member of society once more. If Mr. Wakefield remained in his seat, watching them, she could no longer account for him; her interest was piqued and her focus remained only on the Englishman before her.

“No more.” He granted.


	2. follow you home

Dinner with Mr. Wakefield ended without further mention of the proposed union. The following morning Claire woke to an empty bed and a staggering hangover, conscious only of her tongue’s presence in her mouth and the way in which it scraped her palate like sandpaper. She could tell Frank had wandered from their nest because the corners of her blankets were tucked neatly around her extremities; this was a trick he had learned years ago, after their first night spent together. She would have thought the action sweet if she hadn’t known its underlying motivation to be absolutely selfish: escaping her frigid little fingers and toes at any cost. 

Unsettling depictions of survivalism aside, she could hardly fault Frank for his evasion. He had consumed exactly the same amount of alcohol as she had the previous night, and yet, as she lay in bed with her eyelids glued together, feeling half human, she could already hear the faint rattling of kitchenware and productivity in the distance. His overachieving nature was always making her feel inadequate that way; the least she could do was lie still and welcome her existence as the beneficiary of Frank’s generosity while he was still willing to give it. 

Not twenty-minutes later he was walking toward the bed accompanied by a variety of smells that sent her stomach into a frenzy. A barely audible groan indicated to Frank that the woman he had abandoned in bed earlier that morning had not only remained sentient, but was then also finally becoming aware of his presence. 

“Come now, darling, you know the drill,” Frank beckoned a reaction from Claire by shaking the contents of a small bottle of aspirin he had retrieved from their kitchen cabinet. She responded with another groan, full-bodied this time, causing her feet to sprout from her swathe. 

Must she really forfeit the serenity of her cocoon for the sake of her own sustenance and wellbeing? The thought of surrendering the warmth which absolutely enveloped her only made retreating further into herself all the more enticing. Nonetheless, with another shake of the bottle, and a tethered reminder of his outperforming her in every aspect at that very moment, Frank unwittingly riled a smidge of motivation from the woman which ultimately led to her revitalization.

Still rather begrudgingly, though, Claire poked a fraction of her head out from underneath her bundle and searched, for a moment, for a pair of brown eyes to meet with a chilling glare. Once she found them, she teased, “do you treat all of your fiancées so demandingly?”

“Well,” he entertained her, “most of them don’t get absolutely bladdered at the prospect of becoming my wife, so that's that,” despite the smile toying on his lips, Frank’s message was pointed, and met Claire’s sluggish demeanor head on.

“Fair enough,” she propped her arms at her sides and made a point of hoisting her weight straight up. Then, she reached for the medicine bottle still clasped in his left hand, and accepted a glass of water with which to wash the pill down in consequence. As she did so, her quilt rolled as far down as her navel, exposing her unprotected figure to the chill of the room. 

At that moment, largely with help from the aspirin provided by Frank, any guilt she may have felt for the semblance of truth in his statement was promptly numbed alongside her headache.

—

The passage of a month did little to clarify the logistics of their union to Claire. 

Several hundred dollars later, she was short about three vials of blood, had become newly acquainted with whatever useful compound could protect her from Tetanus—contingent only on the sharp sting of a needle, of course—and, in a dramatic turn of events, some of her urine now belonged to the government. But, at last, she had gained herself a husband! 

It was all very sensible. All but the obligatory medical examination, that is.

The assessment wasn’t intrusive in the sense that they poked and prodded her, no; in truth her experience hardly differed from any standard physical examination necessary when entering public schooling or partaking in some sporting event or other.

It was the idea of being measured against some baseline of standard “Americanness” which felt altogether demoralizing to Claire; having her personhood thus quantified brought a greater sense of discomfort to her than if her physical state mirrored that of the little man in her childhood game, who lied vulnerably with his body open on an operating table, deferential to any outward manipulation.  
Throughout the doctor’s assessments she could hardly keep at bay images of grown men doing ridiculous things in order to gain entrance into some collegiate fraternity of their choice. In the course of her relationship with Frank, wherein she spent a significant fraction of her time waiting out in the courtyard where his office gave way, she had the chance to become closely acquainted with such scenarios and could speak on them with conviction: they were absurd, and beckoned the questioning of the intellectual merits of any Ivy Leaguer willingly partaking in such conventions. 

Even so, as surely as the leaves did change, every fall Claire still bore witness to several outlandish rituals performed by freshman hopefuls on university grounds; most of which, to her dismay, began or ended with the display of many a bare bum. She could not help but imagine that the vulnerability in which she wantonly found herself entangled during all of this marriage business with Frank hardly differed from what these young men withstood for the sake of “brotherhood.”

Plainly, she couldn’t think of anyone more worthy of entering into a lifelong partnership with than Frank. He was reliable, good in bed, the epitome of and inspiration behind the very concept of the “gentleman,” and most importantly, her absolute best friend in the world. But these truths only served to further complicate her attempts at conciliating exactly what about their arrangement inspired such a slight, yet constant, churning in her stomach. 

Yes, she felt vulnerable in the face of authority, that much she could grapple with in therapy at some point (if and when her health insurance could be restored); and yes, there were even larger implications at hand which unsettled her, like the fact that they were swindling her freedom from one institutional oppressor through the manipulation of another (completely tarnishing the sanctity of marriage, for God’s sake); but, if these were the things that weighed on her mind, how come none of them proved valid enough to halt the proceedings altogether? 

Did she just simply share in the same self-preservation instincts employed by Frank weeks prior, when tucking her icy appendages neatly into her blanket? Or was she entirely self-serving, so much that she could stand to disseminate between tolerable and intolerable violations of morality and, what’s worse, choose what kind of guilt to bare accordingly? Did she not object to marrying Frank because love remained the common denominator in their arrangement? Or could love, either for her profession, for Frank—or even Uncle Lamb—have been both the catalyst and the convenient justifier for the chaotic nature of her existence in the States and the questionable paths taken to rectify it? When stripping their agreement of any emotional contingencies, namely her love for Frank and his unrelenting gallantry in accepting the situation, the fact remained that they were still, at the very heart of the matter, bending the law. Could she live with herself either way? 

It was only when her anxiety overpowered her willingness to wax-poetic about the intricacies of her own morality that she tried her hand at vocalizing her discomfort. Although, she had a sneaking suspicion that Frank already possessed a far greater understanding of her reluctance toward their affairs than he let on. So when she turned to him, in bed, her bright eyes gleaming with purpose and their legs entangled to assure the continuance of their proximity, she needn’t spew her doubts before him: he was ready and unquestioning. 

“I will not own you in this,” Frank’s reassuring voice came merely as a whisper, his breath lending warmth against the bare skin of her neck as he spoke.

“Our marriage will not be used as a tool to shape you into subservience,” he added, and while his voice was firmer when uttering the last part, his kisses were all the more delicate, marking the end of his every word. It was as if his mouth carried all of the strength Claire needed to face the ordeal, and he knew it, so his kisses continued to work diligently in displacing that strength evenly throughout the expanse of her body. She was grateful. 

In time she decided that if she had been knocked off some predetermined life course it had happened with the death of her parents, and the nomadic lifestyle which ensued it. All of this business with Frank was an equally dysfunctional way of rectifying her already deviant upbringing. Matching fire with fire, and all that. 

As for the ceremony, which took place not very long after their dinner with Mr Wakefield, it was simple and intimate, and followed by an even less stately dinner in its commemoration. One sunny day, they gathered their freshly administered marriage license, two of their American friends as witnesses—one of which included their lawyer, Geillis Duncan, acquired by them through one of Claire’s home visits—and together they marched, very matter-of-factly, to the Boston City Hall, where they waited their turn patiently. 

Throughout the ordinance Frank teared up and stumbled over his vows a little, even mistakenly declaring that they’d gladly stay together from “poorer to poorer,” which set a rather bleak undertone to their union. Claire, on the other hand, remained stoic during her “I-do’s” despite the flutterings in her belly. She wore a strappy white dress, bearing what some—had they had any guests at all—might have thought of as more cleavage than necessary for such an occasion. Afterward, as she watched the recording made by Geillis of the event, she took note that her nervous heel swivel during her vows very much overpowered the risqué fashion statement. She didn’t pay much mind to the aesthetics of it all, though. Her contentment notwithstanding, she had a distinct feeling that Frank wanted more fanfare out of the occasion. Even so, he dared not push the subject. If the institutional purpose of marriage was to be lost for both of them for the sake of practicality, then its customary pageantries were to remain minimal in the interest of sustaining the sanctity of Claire’s conscience. If Frank started treading lightly around the matter she did not spend time dwelling upon it; their goal ever within reach, Claire wanted nothing more than to cease any opportunity which could facilitate her return to their home country, and relinquish her life from its standstill. 

It took very little to convince Frank that any outstanding celebration should occur within sovereignty of the Queen. 

Claire could hardly wait for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is everything a taylor swift lyric? perhaps.  
will we see jamie next chapter? maaaaaaaybe.  
thank you guys for interacting with this work, it is very very encouraging.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! thank you for reading my very first Outlander fic! I am a little rusty and still getting to know the characters, but hope you enjoy nonetheless! thank you x


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